Sunday Poems XXIV

The first day of spring. The equinox. Time to clean the apartment. Open the windows and doors. The other day someone’s bike was stolen from the hallways of the apartment building I live in. They left behind garbage in the stairwell for some reason. Not a particularly compelling trade.

The air is cold but we’re bringing out our bikes. We’re leaning over the balcony when it’s dark and watching the lights of cars a few blocks away. It’s first thing in the morning and we’re looking out and there are lights in the fog. The fog is rare in this city and I would like to see it more.

I’m thinking of being on a bus for three days reading Umberto Eco across the prairies on my way to see someone. We’ll kiss. We’ll be rained on without an umbrella. Our lives have a way of repeating themselves. Looking at fiction. I’ve seen this plot before. Does it end the same way?

Sundays are a nice day to leave it behind you. Open the door, and then close the door. Look out at the sky. What mixture of grey and blue is it today? If you had a brush and could colour the sky as you wished do you know what shade you might settle on? Have a cup of tea. Go on the internet for a sec to send a cartoon heart to someone. Maybe write them a nice note. Maybe they’re having a hard day, or maybe you are. These poems are a process of reaching out. I hope this can be helpful, or be helpful to someone else you know. As always, I’m here if you need someone to talk to.

All clear

“it’s been a while since someone did that to me,”
i say to the apartment.

An excuse.

It’s been a while
since someone has done that.

The last time it really hurt.

The last time they didn’t love me.

The last time I worked hard
and I didn’t get back.

The last time it wasn’t my fault;
the leaves were covered in snow.

At four in the morning
waiting for the hand to leave my apartment.

Trying to do more work than ever before.

Removing those fingers from where they were stuck in my skin.

We started taking pictures
surely the only way to stay serious about it.

I know how to stay serious
when it’s going to be art.

Art is what you do
when you want to be fucking
but you don’t know how.

We stretch every day.

We stay fit but also thin
stuck, trying to get food into our bodies.

We pluck hairs from our head.

I know everyone. I have been everyone.

I feel the way you feel and I am glue and you are sand
and I am staring at you puzzled and I am up from the table.

Originally published March 20, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
Sunday Poems is supported via Patreon.
If you enjoy this work, consider becoming a patron.
website | twitter | instagram